


Have Yourself a Merry Little Steele

by SuzySteele



Category: Remington Steele (TV)
Genre: Christmas Eve, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:07:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28292118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuzySteele/pseuds/SuzySteele
Summary: It's Laura and Remington's first Christmas together as a married couple, and Remington wants everything to be perfect. But someone else has plans for his Christmas Eve...
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	Have Yourself a Merry Little Steele

Remington awoke from his bed at the Rossmore apartment sometime in the late night hours of Christmas Eve, snapped into alertness by…what? He laid in the darkness and replayed what just happened. There was a shimmering sensation, an afterglow of joy coupled with eroticism, and he realized he’d been dreaming about his new life with Laura. _And a damn fine life it is, too._ And then the dream caresses were interrupted by…A noise. That was it. An unexpected sound awakened him from sleep. He’d spent his entire life listening for unexpected sounds; it kept him one step ahead of whatever trouble was about to descend.

He waited patiently in the darkness, not moving a muscle, and waited to see if the noise would repeat. He was conscious of Laura and her comforting warmth beside him. During these months of connubial bliss, he’d learned to read her sleep, and her soft and steady breathing signaled that she hadn’t responded to whatever had awakened him. Not a loud noise, then, since Laura was usually as alert as he. He laid quietly and willed himself into stillness. Normally there would be the muted sounds of vehicles from the busy street below, even at this late hour, but it was the holiday and even the late-night drivers were home in their beds.

Then he heard it. A soft jingle.

Someone had brushed against the silvered ornaments that hung from Laura’s Christmas tree in the next room.

Someone was in the living room of their apartment.

He mentally reviewed his earlier steps before going to bed. He locked the patio door. The front door. The windows. They had deadbolts that were fiendishly difficult to jimmy.

Then he remembered. They had a cat.

Maybe it was Nero?

The soft jingle came again.

He swore to himself. The damn cat had gotten itself into the tree. Cats. Trees. The thing was probably going to bring the tree down, and there would go Laura’s Christmas.

As he reached up to pull away the bedsheet, his fingers brushed against a handful of hair. Fur. Not Laura’s hair, but Nero’s. The little cat was curled between them, snugged into their warmth.

In an instant he stopped being Laura’s celebrity detective and shifted to that primordial, masculine role as protector of family and hearth. His gut tightened and he slowly eased himself from bed, silent as Nero himself. The chill air reminded him that he was also quite naked. A lovely consequence of marriage. Except at times like this.

He swiftly knelt beside the bed and reached for the small revolver that he kept hidden beneath his nightstand, the gun that Laura pretended to not know about, and only once the comforting shape was nestled in his palm did he pick up the robe that resided at the foot of their bed, sliding his arms through it without releasing the weapon and loosely fastening its tie about his waist. He hesitated a moment. Should he awaken Laura? It might risk the element of surprise, especially if she made a noise. If there was a problem, she’d hear it soon enough, and he trusted her to know what to do.

He moved silently to the closed bedroom door and, standing beside it, used his free hand to slowly turn the doorknob, bracing the hand holding the gun against its frame to quietly ease it open. Laura wanted to leave the tree lights on overnight in a shocking display of girlish sentiment, and they’d compromised by pulling the door by so the light wouldn’t keep him awake. Now, he peered through the inch-wide opening with one eye, and in the dim glow cast by tree’s red and green and blue lights, he saw a bulky shadow move.

He slipped off the gun’s safety, said a silent prayer, and threw the door open as he slid into the room.

"Hold it right there!” he barked crisply. And then his gut clenched.

A familiar, rotund figure turned slowly to face him.

The figure of a hundred nightmares for him and for Laura. A rotund man with a fake white beard and dressed in a red flannel suit that was trimmed with fake white fur.

_Dancer_ …

“Freeze, you bastard,” Steele said. “Tell me why I shouldn’t just shoot you right now.”

“Because it would ruin Christmas for millions of children?” suggested the figure. But his white-gloved hands slowly rose anyway.

Steele’s eyes narrowed as he took in the figure. Dancer was in prison. His trial was long over and he’d been sentenced to the Federal pen for witness tampering. This wasn’t Dancer; the voice wasn’t right. It was another of the men who had held them hostage last Christmas. Prancer? Or was this Donner?

“Okay, Santa,” he said. “Put your weapon down. The gun’s loaded this time. You’ll be across the room before you can reach for it.”

The figure looked better dressed than he had last year, when the trio of Santas held the agency staff and guests hostage on Christmas Eve. This time, the suit fit well and the white beard was thick and curled. Round, wire-rimmed glasses magnified vivid brown eyes that held his own, appraising him. Then, unexpectedly, the man laughed. Not a chuckle. A full-bellied laugh that rocked him back on his black-booted heels.

“There’s no need for that gun, young man! What do you think I’m going to do?” His voice dropped sinisterly. “Steal your cookies?”

The voice was deep and mellifluous and resonated somewhere deep inside Steele’s chest. The sensation was…odd.

Odd or not, he kept the revolver steady and trained on the white pompom buttons of the intruder’s red plush jacket. “We’ve been through this already with Dancer. And I’ve had bloody enough of it. It’s back to prison for you.”

“Really?” Thick white eyebrows rose. “And here I thought we were going to have a nice, new beginning.”

The only beginning we’ll have is sending you back behind bars. Which one are you? Donner? Or Prancer?”

The voice said dryly, “Those are reindeer, Steele.”

“It doesn’t matter. I don’t know how the hell you got out. But you’re leaving here in handcuffs.” He raised his voice, still keeping his attention on the Santa figure before him, and called to his wife in the darkened bedroom behind him. “Laura! Call the police! We’ve an intruder!”

There was only silence from the dark bedroom. “Laura!”

“She won’t hear us,” said Santa, so confidently that a tendril of fear wound upward inside him.

“Laura?” He cocked his gun’s trigger with a sharp ‘click’. “What did you do to her? So help me, if you’ve touched her—”

“There’s nothing wrong with Laura. She simply can’t hear us. She’s not why I’m here.” The visitor raised an eyebrow. “I came to visit you.” He waggled long fingers within his white gloves. They were still raised. “Would it be okay to put my hands down? I feel a little ridiculous standing here with my hands up.”

“Not a chance, Donner. What is it you want?”

Santa frowned. “You’re kidding me, right?”

He gestured with the weapon. “Do I look like I’m kidding?”

Donner sighed. Or was it Prancer? “Look. I’m only here to deliver your Christmas present. And to eat Laura’s cookies.” He winked. “She makes very good cookies.”

“Leave Laura out of this.” But he glanced involuntarily at the plate on the coffee table. It held only crumbs.

“I know. You ate them already,” said Santa with a little sigh. “For her sake. You could try a little more trust, Remington.”

“The only trust here is that you’re not Santa.”

The sigh deepened. “Boy, you really don’t get this, do you?”

“I get that there’s a psycho standing in my living room. I don’t know how you got in—”

“Seriously?”

“—and now you’re going to sit in that chair until the police arrive.” He motioned toward the armchair with his revolver, but the guy in the suit stayed in place.

“Oh, I’ll be long gone before they arrive. I’ve miles to go and homes to visit. Wouldn’t you like your present?”

“That would be where you back in jail?”

Santa cocked a bushy eyebrow. “You’ll like this one better.”

“Try me.”

“It’s what Judy Garland said. In that movie you and Laura like so well. Have a merry little Christmas.” The intruder extended his arms. “I’ve granted your wish, Remington. From now on, your troubles will be miles away. No more looking at happiness from the outside.”

He shifted uneasily. The man must have been spying on him. On them. Like Descoines and his lunatic daughter. “You’ve been monitoring us.” He gestured toward the entertainment cabinet. “Come on, where’s your camera?”

“Camera? What camera? Everyone knows that I can tell who’s been bad or good. And for you, things are now going to be very, very good.”

“’Good’ is putting you back behind bars, Prancer.”

Santa sighed. “The missus told me this visit would be tough. Boy, she wasn’t kidding. Not that I blame you. It’s been a rough life till now.”

“And you can drop the Clarence routine.”

“Remington,” he chided, “we both know that’s only a movie.”

It was Christmas Eve and he was cold in his bare feet and he wanted their first Christmas to be perfect and unspoiled by yet another wackaloon from his and Laura’s past. “That’s enough. I’m calling the police.”

The Santa suit shrugged and gestured toward the phone that rested on the credenza behind him. “Be my guest. But I won’t be here. You may have heard you’re not my only stop.”

Steele was fed up and angry and he wanted nothing more than to crawl back into his warm bed. _Even on Christmas Eve, someone’s still shooting at us._ He reached for the phone, all the while keeping the weapon trained on the intruder. He punched in 911 and waited for dispatch to pick up. He kept expecting an escape attempt, but instead, the guy in the Santa suit simply stood and watched him, alert and curious.

He heard a soft click through the phone’s earpiece and didn’t wait for the ‘hello’. “Operator? Remington Steele. I’ve an intruder at 318 Rossmore. Apartment 5A…”

Santa looked a little sad. “Now, don’t say that. You’ve been secretly hoping to see me for years. Here’s your chance.”

He frowned and pulled the handset away. Shook it. Held it back to his ear. There was no voice on the other end. “Hello? Hello?” He met Santa’s gaze. “You disconnected our phone?”

“Sorry about that. We’re weren’t quite finished. It’ll be fine in a moment.”

He slowly replaced the handset. “All right. I’ll play along with your mad little game. What is it you want?”

“It’s more about what you want, Remington.” Santa smiled, and there was an actual twinkle in those brown eyes. He looked, Remington thought, exactly like Edmond O’Brien in _Miracle on 34 th Street._

“Of course I look like Edmond O’Brien,” said Santa. “It’s how you think of me. I always look like how people imagine me. Laura sees a mix of her father and Atomic Man.”

Steele frowned. “You can’t possibly know—”

“That it’s your favorite Christmas movie? I know quite a bit about you.”

“It isn’t my favorite—”

But Santa cut him off. “Well, perhaps favorite isn’t the right word. Most relevant, perhaps. That scene when Natalie Wood wishes for a real house. And a family to make it complete. That part always made you angry, because you know it doesn’t happen. Not in real life. But in a movie? It was nice to pretend for an hour or two.”

His jaw tightened, and the corner of his eyes unexpectedly stung. The bastard was absolutely right. “It isn’t my favorite,” he lied. “And it’s common knowledge I like movies.”

“For years you hid from Christmas, Remington. Throwing rocks at happy families. Playing tennis with strangers.” Santa tut-tutted. “That’s over now. I’m here to say you’ve finally got your Christmas wish.”

“You’re walking out the door?” Angry kept this lunatic from getting into his head.

“You finally have your own family for the holidays. Just like Natalie Wood.” And then Santa extended his arms wide and smiled, a big beatific smile that would have been ridiculous if it wasn’t so sincere. “Happy Christmas, Remington.”

And under the benevolent spread of those red-suited arms, an odd feeling crept over him. It was a sensation of warmth, not unlike how he felt the first time Laura praised his detective abilities. Or the post-coital afterglow as he held Laura in his arms. It was the unexpected awareness that a heavy weight had just slipped from his soul that he hadn’t been aware was there, and for the first time in his life, he found himself looking forward to Christmas Day. He tried to shake off the feeling. Tried to stay focused. This was ridiculous. “I’ll be happy as soon as I see the last of you.”

Santa slowly shook his head. “This _is_ the only time you’ll see me. One visit per customer, I’m afraid.” He shifted, as if preparing to leave, and Steele waved the revolver at him.

“Oh, no. You’re staying put.”

Santa gestured at the window, and the city lights beyond. “And deprive all those children waiting for my visit? You’re a cruel man, Steele.”

“You next visit is the state pen.”

Santa sighed and scrubbed at the white hair that curled out from beneath his soft stocking cap. “I give up. Mrs. C is right. You _are_ a tough nut to crack.” He tugged at the fur trim of his sleeve cuffs. “I’ll be off, then.” He turned and took a step toward the gas fireplace. Then paused and turned back. The smile had returned, warm and friendly. “Happy Christmas, Remington Harry Mick Johnny. Truly.”

Then he a laid a gloved finger aside his nose, a gesture that reminded Steele of Robert Redford in _The Sting_. Tipping him off. Cheerful eyes twinkled behind the round, wire-rimmed glasses.

“Oh, one last suggestion. You might cut back on the champagne if you want that baby for Christmas next year.”

“What!”

And then, between one blink of an eye and the next, the man vanished with a soft jingle, and Remington found himself aiming his revolver at their Christmas tree. _What the hell!?_ He vaulted the sofa and in two strides was behind the tree, seeking his quarry.

But there was no one.

He searched the apartment, weapon in hand. The sliding patio doors were still locked, and the deadbolts were still thrown on the front door. The presents beneath the tree remained undisturbed. No figure lurked in the kitchen, or the closets, or the shower, or even inside the refrigerator and oven.

_Maybe you imagined it, mate?_ He glanced down at the revolver in his hand. _Some imagination. You’ve let that crazy Dancer get the best of you._

_But it seemed so real…_

After a third exhaustive search, he reluctantly decided the man was well and truly gone. _And I still don’t understand how he got in and out._ He returned to bedroom and looked down at Laura. She was still sound asleep, her thick hair tumbled about the pillow and her arm extended to rest on the open sheets, where he normally laid beside her. She looked impossibly young and heart-breakingly beautiful. She hadn’t awakened during his vigorous search of their bathroom and closets, and he thought that was odd. But another part of him was glad. _Why wake her and ruin her Christmas?_ Nero was still curled beside her. The little cat looked up at him.

“I suppose you didn’t hear that either, eh?” he asked softly.

Green eyes stared at him.

“No…I expect you wouldn’t tell me if you had.”

Nero blinked, and then tucked his head back down into his curled position beside Laura, tail wrapped snugly around him.

He rubbed at his own nose. “No reason for you to have Laura all to yourself. Move over, mate.” He picked up the little cat with his free hand and deposited it onto the foot of the bed. He made sure the gun’s safety was secure, and then slipped it beneath his own pillow. Just in case. Only then did he shrug from his robe, dropping it at the foot of their bed, and slid beneath the cool covers. Laura instinctively snuggled against him, spooning herself inside the curve of his body and twining her legs between his. He wrapped a bare arm around her and held her close, relaxing as he breathed in her floral scent. The scent of home. From the foot of the bed, little pads of pressure strolled up the blanket, paused, and then settled once again, this time on Laura’s other side.

He stilled himself and tried to sleep. The gun’s heavy shape was reassuring beneath his pillow. And yet…

His fear had dissipated. And that mellifluous voice echoed in his memory.

_You’ve wanted to see me for years…From now on, your troubles will be miles away…You finally have your own family for the holidays…_

He finally drifted off, with Laura warm in his arms and Judy Garland’s voice singing him to sleep.

THE END


End file.
